


Nameless and Gleaming

by aphilologicalbatman (inabathrobe)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-05 20:11:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10316069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inabathrobe/pseuds/aphilologicalbatman
Summary: Cris and Ricky take a bath at the Ciudad Real Madrid.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yeats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeats/gifts).



> Many thanks to [Digs](http://archiveofourown.org/users/digs), who betaread this on short notice and with great perspicacity, and to Yeats, who told me about [_la residencia_](http://realwhitegold.tumblr.com/post/157159332379/this-week-i-learned-that-a-friend-of-mine-has) in the first place. All remaining errors are my own.
> 
> Written for the [prompt:](https://footballprompts.tumblr.com/post/158326892520/) shower/bath.

Cris doesn't turn the jets on because he knows that Ricky likes to be able to look and to maintain plausible deniability while he does it. Even without them, though, he can still feel every muscle in his body instinctively relax as he settles into the tub in his suite at the Ciudad. Ricky is hovering by the vanity, fiddling with his watch like that's what's keeping him out of the water.

"You're overdressed," Cris says, resting his chin on his crossed arms on the edge of the tub.

Ricky sighs dramatically. "We aren't all natural-born exhibitionists like you."

Cris waits him out in silence, and eventually Ricky strips down to his briefs, which are hilariously Armani-branded. Cris swallows the joke and settles himself against the far side by the tap. Ricky sits on the edge of the tub and slides his underwear off before carefully swinging one leg and then the other into the bath as though distrustful of the water temperature. Ricky's feet are very white under the water, tinged with pale blue.

"You're not going to get in?"

"Not yet," Ricky says. He has his knees pressed almost together, although he's leaning back on his spread arms. He knows how to make himself appear casual.

Cris tips his head back and lets his eyes fall shut, lets the water cradle him. They have a match tomorrow; they're in Concentración for a purpose (well, several purposes). He wonders what Cristianinho is doing at home with Cris's mother. Did he eat his vegetables? Is he fussing over going to bed?

"Stop worrying about Junior. He's fine."

"So give me something else to think about."

"I think our cohesion with the defense could be better."

Cris flicks water at him. "Not about football."

"But you _love_ football!"

Cris opens his mouth to say something really and truly stupid back to him in response, but he manages to snap his mouth shut on the words. He studies the grout on the white-tiled wall. Ricky says his name, soft and low, and Cris looks over at him.

"Come here."

He does, quick and careless, water sloshing almost out of the tub. Ricky cards his fingers through Cris's hair, softening in the steam. He presses a kiss to Cris's temple and rubs at the spot with his thumb. Cris sinks down into the water, Ricky's hand following him. His head is level with the edge of the tub and Ricky's knees now. He taps the good one. "May I?"

Ricky tilts his knees open and says, "mmhm," and Cris noses between them, pressing his cheek to the inside of Ricky's thigh. Cris rubs the stubble of his five o'clock shadow against the smooth skin there until Ricky closes his thighs around Cris's face and says, "That tickles." He doesn't push Cris away, though. Cris looks up at Ricky from between his thighs and catches his eye.

He feels Ricky's thighs move and then their limbs are jangling together as Ricky is sliding into the bath next to him, water spilling out onto the floor, Ricky's wet hands cupping his face and tilting it down. The kiss, like all the ones that have come before it, is warm and unexpected and strange, Ricky tense and alive under Cris's hands, trying not to press against him. His hands never leave Cris's face, holding him there, sometimes centimeters away while Ricky catches his breath. Cris kisses like he's on fire, but Ricky kisses like he's burning the house down.

Eventually, Ricky says, impatient, "Come here," and Cris does, muscling him back against the bathtub and pinning him to its low wall. Ricky relaxes in Cris's arms, but still digs his fingers into the flesh of Cris's back as if to keep him there. Cris keeps his hands to himself, but knows that Ricky will get greedy soon, will slide their hips judiciously together, will murmur Cris's name while hiding his face in the wet crook of Cris's neck. Afterward, Cris will turn on the jacuzzi jets.

Ricky puts a hand over Cris's mouth. "Bed?"

Cris looks back at him blankly. Ricky doesn't usually sleep over afterward. "Are we done here?"

Ricky shrugs. "I had other plans."

Cris says, "Oh, um, okay. Hang on, I'm going to wash my hair."

Ricky stares back at him incredulously. "Now?"

"Well, you're going to go to sleep, aren't you?" Cris snaps.

And Ricky, of all things, _laughs_. He laughs. "That wasn't what I was planning to do in bed."

Cris says, "Oh. I, uh— I didn't bring anything?"

Ricky purses his lips. "You said you would."

"I forgot."

"You forgot last week too."

Cris is silent.

"Well, it doesn't matter because I did remember."

"You did?"

"I had a feeling you might have forgetten again." He wraps his arms around Cris's shoulders and squeezes, and as though it had been pressed out of him, Cris lets out the breath that he's been holding. "Wash your hair. Dry off. Come over to my room."

"I think I'm going to skip washing my hair," Cris says, mouth a little dry.

Ricky says, "Flatterer," and hauls himself out of Cris's embrace, out of the bathtub. He walks, dripping wet, across the tile floor and pulls on Cris's team-issued terrycloth robe with the Real Madrid monogram on the pocket from where it's hanging primly on the wall. He pads out onto the balcony that connects their rooms, tugging down on the hem of the robe, since it's too short on Ricky just the way it's too short on Cris.

Cris doesn't actually skip washing his hair, but he does wash it quickly. Let Ricky have a little time to think. After he dries himself off, he rehangs the towel and, naked, goes to follow the wet footprints that Ricky has trailed through Cris's room and across the balcony. Ricky pops out of his own balcony door to meet Cris halfway. "You took your time," Ricky says. He's still wearing Cris's robe. His hair is wet and limp and plastered to his forehead.

"Maybe I was nervous," Cris says. Ricky's face softens a little at that. Cris wants to play it off, but he doesn’t. He knows better by now.

Ricky slides up to him, cups his jaw, body warm and near. "You're going to be so good, baby." And it's the kind of stupid shit that only Ricky can get away with, that Cris wants to laugh off, but it makes something go warm in his belly and uncoils the tension in his back. Ricky presses a kiss to the corner of Cris's mouth and then puts his thumb over the spot as if to keep the kiss there.

Cris wraps his fingers around Ricky's wrist and says firmly, "Bed," and Ricky's smile cracks over his face like a broken egg. They make their way over to the bed, all five feet away, Cris settling down on the edge. Ricky pulls a little bottle out of one pocket of the robe, a strip of condoms out of the other. Cris stares at them both, studiously avoiding looking at Ricky. He sees movement in his peripheral vision, hears the flump of terrycloth hitting the floor.

When he looks, Ricky is still smiling at him. Ricky straddles his lap precariously and kisses him, and Cris leans back and pulls Ricky down onto the bed with him, his weight comforting and real above him. Ricky is laughing and kissing at him, and if there is one thing they have a lot of practice at, it's kissing naked in Cris's bed.

Ricky pushes away eventually, saying, "I should—", and Cris wraps a leg around Ricky's hips, and Ricky says his name, exasperated and fond, trying to slide away as Cris tries to keep him there. Cris slides a hand between them and tries to get something going before Ricky can slither away to lick his wounds. Ricky groans softly and presses his face into Cris's hair, collapsing the space between them and all but trapping Cris's hand. Ricky's hips stutter into Cris's grasp.

Cris says, "Can I suck you off," and Ricky says no. Cris stares at him, at the flushed crook of his neck, which is all the skin he can see.

"Let me take care of you," Ricky says. "Just this once."

Cris says, "Okay," and lets Ricky slide away. He grins down at Cris, who wants to pull him close and tell him that, no, this is enough. Cris doesn't need more. Come back.

Ricky brushes a thumb over Cris's cheek. "Go lie down on the bed," and when Cris opens his mouth to object that he _is_ , Ricky adds, "No, the right way round," and as Cris scrambles up the bed, Ricky swats at his ass. Cris sprawls out on top of the duvet, propped up on half a dozen pillows carefully embroidered with the club crest.

Ricky is staring at him. Cris says, "What?"

"Just you."

Cris throws a small pillow at him, and Ricky catches it and returns it to the bed. He perches on the edge of the bed. "You've done this before," he says, "so you'll tell me if I do something wrong." Cris nods once. Ricky moves closer, coming back into Cris's space. He kisses Cris's cheek, tentative and almost shy, and cups his face in one hand. "Cris?"

"Mhm."

"Can I fuck you?"

Cris's mouth goes dry at the sound of the words in Ricky's mouth. He nods.

"You have to tell me, sweetheart."

Cris says, "Yes," and Ricky kisses him, sinking his teeth into Cris's lower lip and tugging. Ricky slings one leg over Cris's hips and crouches above him, and Cris has to resist the urge to pull Ricky to him. He's so casual about it, stroking one hand down Cris's stomach. He tugs at Cris's earlobe with his teeth, digs his teeth into the muscle of Cris's neck, bites just hard enough to mean it but not to mark. Cris runs his hands meaninglessly over the planes of Ricky's back, slow and even, as though he were trying to gentle a wild animal. Ricky's mouth is warm and wet on Cris's skin, on his chest, skittering over a nipple. He mouths his way down to Cris's bellybutton and nuzzles his nose into it, more intimate than erotic.

Ricky moves lower, and Cris tenses in spite of himself. Ricky looks up the length of Cris's body at him and raises his eyebrows. He presses a kiss into the skin a few inches from Cris's dick. And then he hesitates. Cris feels the moment rattle over the brink and then Ricky's tongue, unexpected on the head of his cock. Ricky is appreciative and exploratory like he always is the first time he tries something, whether it's a new set piece or an untasted swath of Cris's skin. He buries his face there, mouthing wetly and without a purpose.

When Ricky says, "Roll over," Cris does as he's told. When Ricky parts the cheeks of his ass, he's expecting fingers, maybe, but not the warmth of Ricky's tongue sliding down to lap at him. Cris makes a little noise in the back of his throat and lets his hips thrust back against Ricky just a little, so he can feel Ricky's nails curl into his skin. He buries his face in the pillow and tries to ride it out.

After a moment, Ricky stops. Cris can feel Ricky's breath on his skin. Ricky says, "Let me hear you." Cris bites his lip. He wants to refuse. He knows Ricky won't ask again if he does. Instead, he lets himself go, lets go of the little gasping breaths and the whimpers and the scraps of dignity that he's drawn carefully around himself, because Ricky's tongue is hot inside him and that's worth letting go for. He scrabbles at the sheets with one hand when Ricky pulls away again, and he's saying, "Jesus, Cris. _Fuck_ ," and pressing himself up against Cris's back, and Cris can feel that he's hard. Ricky kisses the back of Cris's neck, soft and reverent, and breathes. He says, "Sorry. I need a moment."

Cris manages to say, "Don't apologize."

"I don't like to keep you waiting."

Cris reaches out with one hand and flailingly grabs the condoms and throws them at where he thinks Ricky is. They slide down onto the bed, cold and crinkly in Cris's armpit, and Ricky giggles and kisses his shoulder, and Cris flops down into the blankets, making a face at Ricky that he can't possibly see. Ricky sits back, resting on Cris's hips. He hears Ricky tear the packet open and then a long silence.

After what feels like a full minute, Cris says, "You okay up there?"

"Mm."

"Did you forget how they work?"

Ricky says nothing.

"You forgot how condoms work," Cris crows.

"I'm married!" Ricky snaps.

Cris hesitates. "Ricky?"  


"What."

"Have you ever actually used a condom?"

"No."

"Do you want to?"

"I thought— You know, safe sex and all."

"I'm clean," Cris says in a very small voice.

"Cris, I— No. No, not like that."

"What, then? Because I don't know where _you_ 've been?"

Ricky slaps his ass. It stings, the feeling curling up his spine. Ricky says, joking but not teasing, "Maybe I have a boyfriend on every team in La Liga."

"Nah," Cris says. "Now, let me sit up, and I'll show you how to put a condom on."

He does. Ricky is holding it upside down, so Cris flips it over. Ricky makes an exasperated noise, and Cris shrugs at him. "Really?" Cris nods. He rolls it onto Ricky while he watches. Ricky is studiously focused, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Cris says, "Ricky?", and Ricky looks up at him. "There isn't going to be a test." Cris strokes him a few times before offering him the lube. Ricky takes it and makes him lie back down on his stomach and tuck his knees under him. Cris waits, listening for the click of the bottle cap.

"Ricky?"

His hand cups Cris's ass and squeezes. "What, sweetheart?"

"If you aren't going to finger me, can I be up on my hands and knees?"

"Of course." Cris shifts up and back. Ricky kisses the small of his back. "Better?"

"Mmhm."

Now, the click-squirt of the lube and the soft sigh of Ricky slicking himself up. Ricky presses a finger against him. "Ready?"

Cris says, "Yes." Ricky runs a hand down the length of his back, and Cris shivers and squirms, letting the tension run out of him. He can feel Ricky line himself up, feel him take in a breath to steel himself, and then let it out again, Ricky trying to gin up the courage to put it in. He says, "Ricky, please," and that's enough. It's been a while —he learned to keep this desire to himself— but it doesn't hurt. Ricky goes slow, careful and gentle, fingertips dancing on Cris's hips.

Ricky stops maybe halfway in, leans over, and bites into the muscle of Cris's back. It hurts, the crisp pain of it, and he thrusts back against Ricky, pulling a hissing moan out of himself, and Ricky comes up to meet him. They stay there for a moment before Ricky pulls back and sets a solid pace, slow and shallow and safe. Cris says, "No, deeper," and he doesn't know what he was expecting, but it isn't Ricky grabbing him by the hair and dragging him bodily back, half into Ricky's lap, so Ricky can fuck up into him, short close thrusts. Ricky keeps his hold on Cris's hair and wraps his other arm around Cris's chest, and then it doesn't matter that Cris is at the point of collapse, desperately stroking himself in time with Ricky, because Ricky will hold him up.

Ricky says, "sweetheart," and, "Cris," and other things that Cris tries to wash away out of his memory, but which stick regardless, into Cris's ear, running his tongue along it when he thinks to. He expects Ricky to say, "I'm going to come," or something of that ilk because that's what everyone before him has done, but instead Cris is left to guess when Ricky's hips stutter and he loses all pretext of coherence. Ricky drops his forehead against Cris's shoulder, now a heavy weight against Cris's back.

"Hey," Cris says. "Hey."

Ricky mutters, "Sorry," and kisses Cris's shoulder and pulls out. Ricky moves slowly as if through soup, adjusting himself and Cris. Cris wants to come and have it be done with before Ricky can run away, sleepy and sated. "Mm, what are you doing?"

"Getting myself off," Cris says, almost impatient, and Ricky makes a muttered grumble from somewhere near Cris's shoulder and swats his hand away, replacing it with his own. "What're you doing?"

"What does it look like?" Ricky says. After a moment, his hand slows. "Do you want me to finger you while I do this?"

"Yes, please."

And Ricky slides two fingers into him at once, which is simultaneously oddly comforting and not enough, and Cris rocks back against them until Ricky gets the hint and thrusts into Cris a little with them, and the difference between Ricky's cock and his fingers is that he can and will scissor them, and Cris ends up coming with a yelp. Ricky slides his fingers out and strokes Cris's ass appreciatively. Ricky doesn't seem ready to let go of him, but Cris pulls away and crawls under the covers. Ricky gets up and plods into the bathroom. Cris can just see him flushing the condom (no) and tidying himself up with a washcloth. He'll get another one from housekeeping in the morning.

He watches Ricky run water over the other one and wring it out, and then to Cris's surprise, Ricky walks over to the bed with it. "Roll over," Ricky says, and Cris flops onto his stomach. Cold air washes over him when Ricky pulls the blanket back, but then Cris is distracted. Ricky is running the hot washcloth over his ass, spreading his cheeks and wiping away the sticky traces of lube there and on his upper thighs. He wipes the remaining come off Cris's stomach and tosses the washcloth away. And then Ricky climbs into bed with him.

Cris instinctively rolls onto his side, moving toward his own side of the bed, but Ricky follows, pressing up close behind him. His body is warm and a little damp against Cris's back. Ricky slings an arm around Cris's waist, and he can feel the flutter of Ricky's eyelashes against his skin. He thumbs Cris's bellybutton. Cris says, unbidden, "Did you like it?"

"Of course." Ricky's voice is warm, but Cris can tell he's laughing at him.

"Was it, you know, different?"

"Well, yes."

"But good?"

"Cris," Ricky says, sounding suddenly stern, "are you trying to tell me you had a bad time? Now, when it's too late for me to make it better for you?"

Cris is silent for a moment. "I mean, I do have a few suggestions for next time."

"But?"

"But I'd let you fuck me again."

"Good. You can break down my performance in the morning, _mister_." Ricky goes quiet for a moment, and then he asks, "Can I stay?"

Cris says, "Please."

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on [Tumblr.](http://aphilologicalbatman.tumblr.com)


End file.
